Left Behind
by Ally-Cat Loves Cookies
Summary: Sequel to "The Finish Line". After Sam's suicide, Dean is left to deal with the consequences. With the help of Bobby and a possible new romance, can he learn to manage life without his baby brother? And when a new and powerful enemy begins to cause trouble, will Dean be able to protect his loved ones and save the day again? Not necessary to read prequel.
1. Chapter 1

_Hey, everybody! Me again! This story was meant to have an entirely different plot, but somehow morphed into a sort of sequel to "The Finish Line". If you didn't read that, Sam committed suicide out of grief and guilt, leaving only a note. When this story starts, Dean has already found Sam, called 911, had him pronounced dead, and is now back at a motel room, trying to come to terms with what happened. All of what I just mentioned will be written in detail in a later chapter. For now, enjoy and review! My first Dean-central fic, so any constructive criticism is appreciated! Love to you all!_

_Disclaimer: I still don't own Supernatural. *sigh*_

With a heavy thud, the motel room's door crashes open, revealing a bedraggled man in a dusty leather jacket. Head down, he takes a weary step through the door before slamming it shut with a sudden pained yell. As the man looks up, brilliant green eyes bristling with tears shine in the dim light. He trudges toward the bed and slowly eases himself down onto it. As he sits, he puts his head in his hands and shouts in frustration, unable to find the words he needs to express.

"Why, Sam? Why would you do it? Why would you leave me here? God, you… you idiot!" With the last word, he collapses into himself in tears. Sobbing, he remains there for what feels like an eternity, praying that maybe, just maybe, his sasquatch of a little brother will come rumbling through the door to give him one of his world-class smirks and hug him, just one more time, and Dean will never let him go. It doesn't happen, and Dean knows it never will.

When the last of his cries fade away and his eyes, red and swollen, begin to dry, he clears his throat and stands up. As he begins to pace, he starts talking himself through the next steps, immersing himself in what little logic he has.

"Okay, okay. Take a breath. Think it through. What do you need to do?" He takes a deep breath before his eyes light up with realization. "Bobby, gotta call Bobby. He'll know what to do."

He ceases his circling of the room and grabs his phone off of the bedside table. He scrolls through the contacts until he reaches the number. **Bobby S. **He dials it quickly and sits back down waiting for the answer, bouncing his leg impatiently. Just before the ringing stops, Dean's prayers are answered.

"Hello?" A gruff voice answers the call, sounding as though he had just woken up.

"Bobby, oh God, Bobby…"

"Dean?" Bobby's voice is suddenly laced with concern. Dean was a pretty tough kid, no doubt about that. If something managed to get to him this badly, it couldn't be good. "Dean, what's wrong?"

"B-Bobby… it's Sam. He's gone." Dean heard his voice crack on the last phrase and tears welled up in his eyes once again.

Bobby sighed in relief. The boy ran off every once in a while on some hare-brained quest to help the hopeless or redeem himself from some crap. The idjit. "Well, any idea where he went? How long has he been missing?"

Biting back his tears, Dean took a breath. "No, Bobby, he's _gone_. Sam… Sam's dead, Bobby, and I don't know what to do."

Silence.

"I'm on my way, boy. Where are you?" Bobby suddenly sounded emotionless, all of the feeling drained from his voice. Somehow, it was comforting to Dean. He needed someone stable, because he sure as hell wasn't.

"Indiana. Springfield. Some motel called "The Ruby Slippers"."

"I'll be right there. Don't move a muscle."

The dial tone reverberated in Dean's ear, a low droning note. All Dean heard was the low beep of the heart monitor from the ambulance. The one that told Dean everything he'd feared was true. His brother, his only family left, was dead. He, Dean, was alone. Forever.


	2. Chapter 2

_I simply couldn't bear to leave Dean alone and depressed for too long, so here's the next chapter! Remember, reviews are love!_

_Disclaimer: The world of Supernatural continues to turn WITHOUT me at its head._

_Warning: This chapter is a little more intense, so if suicide-y things trigger or upset you, proceed with caution._

"Dean?"

With a confused look on his face, Dean opened his eyes, bringing them up to stare at the door. Just waking up, he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, expecting to find Sam looming over him, annoyance flashing in his smirk that Dean slept so late again.

Nothing. Still just a door. A door that would never again swing open haphazardly as his little brother stumbles in with the breakfast, or runs in with a fresh lead and a sparkle in his eye. He must have imagined hearing a voice yell his name.

"Dean!"

He blinked. No, someone definitely called. Wait, Sam? Was it Sam? Dean's eyes lit up. It all made sense now. Sam must have been on some errand, and was only coming back now to find that he was locked out. This must have all been a dream! Of course, Sam would never do something like that. Like kill himself. How could Dean have thought that for an instant? Sam trusted Dean; he would have talked to him. With a grin lighting up his face, he ran towards the door, prepared to give Sam the biggest chick-flick moment of his life. Practically glowing, he swung open the door.

"Sam! Sammy, you'll never believe what I dreamt about, I-"

"Dean? Are you okay?" Bobby tilted his head to the side slightly in worry.

Dean stopped midsentence, shocked and confused about what just happened. Where was Sam? This was Bobby. Where was his little brother Sam?

"Boy!" Bobby's yell knocked Dean out of his stupor. Seeing the boy's uncertain look, he grabbed Dean's arm and led him to the bed, sitting him down. "Dean? I need you to talk to me. What's going on?" Dean simply shook his head.

"I… I thought… where's Sam? I thought I heard him at the door. I had some weird dream about him dying, and I just woke up. What're you doing here?"

Bobby exhaled slowly, unsure of how to handle this. The boy was clearly in some state of shock and denial. Pressing the issue might not be what he needs right now. But still, Bobby needed to know what happened. Dean couldn't keep rejecting the truth. He needed to face it down and start to deal with it.

"Dean… I hate having to tell you this, but you know in your heart that wasn't a dream. I'm so sorry, but Sam is dead. And you need to tell me what happened."

Dean looked at him, an odd composite of shock, sadness, and anger illuminating his face.

"No… it can't be true… it was a dream, wasn't it?" Seeing the elder hunter's despondent expression, Dean let loose a single tear, agony piercing his body through every crack, every crevice, into every nerve he had. "Bobby, wasn't it?" He took a ragged breath before burying his head into his hands and shaking his head in denial.

"I'm so sorry, boy. So, so sorry."

And so they sat there, the broken young man and the decrepit old hunter, until the morning sun rose. Bobby silently thanked whatever gods were up there that Dean was facing away from him that whole time, as he didn't think he could bear having the boy see his eyes water and tears rain upon his face.

As both of their tears dried and the sun settled in the east, Bobby turned to face his son. Sure, maybe they weren't biological, but dammit, Dean was the closest thing to a son that he'd ever had, and what with the way John tended to treat those boys, Bobby was just as much their father as he was. So no matter what anyone else said, they were family, blood or not.

"Dean, we need to talk. You need to tell me what happened."

Inhaling deeply, Dean composed himself to look his guide straight in the eye. As the words flowed freely from his mouth, he could visualize the entire scenario perfectly, every detail and feeling vivid in his mind.

. . . . . . . . . . . . .

_Smirking as he tucked yet another hot babe's phone number in his pocket, Dean casually unlocked and opened the motel door._

"_Sammy, you'll never guess what happened to me at the bar!" He slammed the door behind him, expecting to hear some sarcastic remark about how he never did any work and left Sam to do all the lame stuff. Quiet._

_He strolled through the living room area towards the bedroom. This was a much nicer apartment than they were used to. Once in a while, hustling really paid off. "Sammy?" As he entered the bedroom, the sight before him stunned him. He tried to speak, but no words would come out. Mouth agape, he took in every detail of the horrifying scene that lay in front of him._

_His Sammy, eyes closed, as though sleeping, lay on the bed, arms by his sides. Blood stained everything, from the wall to the carpet to the simple white bed sheets. All of it flowing from a wound on the side of Sammy's head. His Sammy's head. _

"_Oh, God, nononononono…" Dean began to ramble on to Sam as he cradled the young man in his arms. "No, no, no. No, don't worry Sam, I've got you. Your big brother's got you, and I'll never let you fall, never let anything hurt you." As he rocked the cold body he began to feel for a heartbeat, a pulse, or any sign of life. Feeling none, he froze. He looked down at Sam and shut his eyes._

"_NOOOOOOO!"_

_His scream rippled through the entire building. Before long, a middle aged man with receding black hair knocked on the door. Finding it not entirely closed, it swung open. He peered inside, and hearing sobbing, approached the boys._

"_Oh my God…"_

_Dean lost sense of time. Sometime soon after, paramedics arrived and tried to pry Sam from Dean's arms, enraging him._

"_NOBODY TOUCH MY BROTHER! YOU SONS OF BITCHES JUST STAY AWAY!" Eventually, the emergency workers convinced him to release the body. After failed heart compressions and CPR, they checked his pulse on a heart monitor. The low drone echoed in Dean's mind. Sam was officially pronounced dead. Dean sank from a state of anger to a state of shock as he was moved to the other side of the room. He felt completely numb inside. How could it be true? Sam, dead? It didn't make any sense. After all, Dean was the older brother. He was the one who was supposed to die first. Seniority rules. Then it hit him. What had happened? He grew restless, pawing through the cops surrounding him to reach his brother's body. It was then that he saw a gun on the bed in an evidence bag, being observed by officers. Next to it, even more confusing, was the folded piece of paper with the word __**Dean**__ scrawled over the front. Wait a minute, gun? Note? Dean went livid. Someone must have killed his little brother!_

_Looking up, he grabbed the first man in a uniform he saw and shook him by the shoulders. "Why is that gun in an evidence bag? What does it have to do with anything? And what is that paper there? That's my name, Dean. Is it meant for me? Did the son of a bitch who killed my brother leave it for me? Why-"_

"_Sir, slow down. I think you need to sit." The man looked down at him with a sincere expression, pity riddling his smile. "I can explain what we've found, although what happened prior to this man's death is still only speculation."_

_Dean looked him over, narrowing his eyes. Was he furious? Of course. But right now it was time to gather all the info he could to get the lowdown on the bastard who did this. He nodded sharply._

_The officer sighed. "The gun was found by the edge of the bed, near where the bloodstains from the body are. It is believed to be the weapon used to kill your brother." Dean scrunched his eyebrows in confusion. He hadn't remembered seeing a gun .Or had he? His mind was so scrambled, he couldn't remember left from right anymore._

_After giving Dean a moment to think, the officer continued. "The note is what appears to be… a suicide note. Apologizing to you."_

_Dean's eyes widened in bewilderment. Suicide note… from Sam? No, there's no way…_

_Practically reading his mind, the man insisted. "We found a notebook of his in a nearby drawer. We matched the handwriting. It's his."_

_From here, everything became a blur. Dean vaguely remembered being questioned about his relationship to Sam, about his finding the body, and whether Sam had any enemies to check on. Some woman from the police gave him keys to another motel room. Sometime after, paramedics came to check on him and his state. Despite recommendations, Dean chose to stay in the motel, rather than go to a hospital._

_. . . . . . . . . . . . ._

"After that, they told me they were taking him to the nearest morgue to do a quick investigation, see if there was anything else contributing to his death, besides…" His voice trailed off. "Anyways, then I called you and the rest is history."

Bobby rubbed his temples in slow circles, trying to come to terms with what he'd just been told. Sam, the boy he'd helped raise and nurtured, had killed himself? It wasn't possible.

Dean continued. "I didn't get the note yet. They said it was just a lot of apologizing and some unintelligible babble about his emotions that made no sense to them. I assume there was some talking about our hunts, which wouldn't make any sense to normal people. But Bobby, I know that gun. It was our gun, his special one. Nobody else had access to it but him and me. Nobody else could have done it. Sam killed himself, and it was all my fault."

Bobby took Dean by the shoulder, looked him square in the eye, and said "Boy, if you ever say that again, I will slap you so hard, your babies will be sore." Dean made a move to argue, but Bobby held up his hand in defiance. "Don't you try to argue with me boy. This was not your fault. It was nobody's fault. There was nothing you did wrong. Now," he said with a tired groan, "I haven't slept all night and you still look out of it, so we are going to take a good long sleep and get our heads on straight so we can deal with this properly. And no, I don't really care what time of day it is."

Dean nodded silently and looked away. Bobby rose to his feet, but as he turned towards the couch he planned to sleep on, he was stopped by strong arms around his chest. Pulled into a hug with Dean, he squeezed back, letting Dean know he was there.

"Thank you." Dean said quietly.

"It'll be okay, Dean, I promise." If only he believed those words himself.


	3. Chapter 3

_I'm so sorry it's been so long! I got caught up in another story and completely forgot to keep working on this one! Ugh, cookies to everyone who is willing to put up with my absentmindedness. Anyways, I've been on such a Supernatural binge lately that I just had to do a little typing, so here goes! Happy holidays!_

_Disclaimer: The boys aren't mine. At least, not yet. But I'm working on it…_

Dean sat in a faded leather chair by the window in Bobby's living room. Outside, snowflakes drifted to the ground, enshrouding the world outside in white. It was just as cold inside, and Dean's breath left a trail of fog. But Dean didn't care. Nothing mattered anymore, not now that Sam was dead.

Dean choked up for a minute. It had been almost a week since he buried Sam, put him in a special spot by his favorite tree at Bobby's. The coroner in Indiana had called back with the obvious; Sam had died from a… self-inflicted… bullet to the head. Death was instantaneous. After another day, they released his body, and Dean brought him right back to Bobby's. He tried everything to bring Sam back, but nobody wanted to put up. The angels wanted no part of it, and the demons were perfectly content with just one Winchester boy sucking air. No matter what he offered, nobody would help. His life? Nope. His soul? Nah. The colt? No, thank you. But then there was the worst part of all: nobody would tell him where Sam was. Where his soul was. For all Dean knew, he could be rotting in Hell! After all, that's what all those psycho Christians say, right? Suicide is a big no-no and a one way express ticket to downstairs.

Oh, God… If Sam was in Hell… Dean knew what it was like. He knew the pain and agony of having your flesh is stripped from your bones piece by piece. He knew the searing anguish of bathing in acid and having your skin bubble off, only to have it grow right back. He knew worse.

This was his fault. If he hadn't been such a stupid ass and gone and wasted all that time picking up numbers from slutty girls with daddy issues, he would've been there. He could've stopped it. Even more, if he hadn't been such a piss-poor excuse for a brother, maybe Sam would've been able to talk to him, stop it from getting this bad. If anyone deserved Hell right now, it was Dean.

The stairs began to creak as heavy footsteps made their way down. Dean shifted back towards the window, doing everything he could to avoid Bobby's pity-riddled gaze. That was probably the worst; having Bobby treat him like he was some delicate flower, and one blow of the wind might crush him. He might be depressed as they come, but he wasn't a child. He just wanted to be treated the way he was before all this happened. But… he wasn't that same person he was before this happened, was he? He couldn't really go back to normal, not ever. His normal was hunting with his brother. His normal was driving and pranking and teasing and hugging and crying over and goddammit, _loving_ his little brother. Now what was he supposed to do?

Bobby finished making his way down the stairs and looked up from his feet. There was Dean, staring out the damned window again. That's all he ever seemed to do these days, just stare out the window and wait. Wait for Sam to come running up the path, wait for some demon to offer him a deal…. wait to die. Hell if Bobby knew. But no matter what he was waiting for, it wasn't going to do him any good. Yet there he sat, never sleeping, never eating, and definitely never talking. More than anything in the world, Bobby wanted to fix this. But how can you even begin to fix something like this? There's no monster to kill, no ritual to use, and no deals to be made. Dean would kill him if he even brought up the idea of a counselor or therapist, or really anyone more qualified than Bobby to deal with this kind of thing (which was probably anyone else on the face of the planet, for that matter), so that was out. Bobby sighed. Hunters aren't exactly known for their comforting, cuddly side. All he could do was offer Dean food, a place to rest, and an ear to listen.

With that, Bobby made his way towards the kitchen and began boiling water for some soup. He wasn't exactly Rachel Ray, but he could whip up a mean batch of chicken noodle soup. Behind him, he heard a faint squeak from the Dean's chair.

"Hey Dean, you in the mood for some broth?" he asked gently.

Silence.

He began to pour flavoring and vegetables into the pot. "Look, you've got to eat. No good will come from you starving yourself. Just a little bit, please."

More silence.

Bobby turned around, ready to force the damn stuff down Dean's throat. "Dean, you have to-" He froze.

Dean was missing from his chair. "Balls! Where did he go?" Bobby looked around. He would have heard Dean move up the stairs, they hadn't stopped creaking since before Dean was born. He had a bad, bad feeling about this. The Winchester brothers weren't exactly known for their rational and life-preserving decisions, especially not when it involved the other brother. God knows what Dean was planning to do. Dashing into the living room, he heard a car rumbling outside the house. "No!" Bobby yelled.

He ran right out to the junkyard lot, but he knew he couldn't catch up on foot. The Impala's engine hum faded away in the distance as Dean raced away from the only home he knew, running away from the nightmare he knew he couldn't face. Not yet.


	4. Chapter 4

_Welcome back! After a hell of finals week, a major blizzard, and the apparent retiring of the pope, I finally mustered up the willpower to sit down and finish planning this story out! Thank you to everyone who is reading and has ever taken the time to read this, and remember, reviews make the world go 'round and keep the authors typing!_

With a heavy sigh, Dean ran a jittery hand through his hair, trying to ignore the gnawing pain in the pit of his stomach. It had been nine days since he'd run away from Bobby's, and in that time he had taken to a strict diet of cheap beer, candy bars, and more potato chips that Lay's put out in a year. It wasn't really by choice; he just couldn't bring himself to stop for any real food. Every time he thought about grabbing a cheeseburger, he'd remember one of the millions of times he stopped with Sam for a quick bite after a job. He'd tease Sam about his rabbit food ("Real warriors can't survive on that crap!") and Sam would come right back with some rejoinder about Dean's burger consumption being beyond unhealthy ("Yeah? Well, when your _warrior food_ gives you heart disease, don't hold your breath waiting for me to pick up your slack. You get killed trying to waddle your fat ass away from some poltergeist, that's on you."). Both would laugh and continue to throw jabs at each other, seeing who could take the most hits, and Dean would smile inwardly, knowing that Sam would die before letting his fat ass get killed by some poltergeist. That was their way; that was how they knew everything was going to be okay.

But Dean knew he would never experience that again. Sam would never be able to order another godforsaken salad shake, and Dean would never be able to call him out on it again. Everything was different now, and that included Dean's burger habit.

Still, one couldn't really get far on nothing but junk food and cheap alcohol, and Dean knew he was long overdue for a long shower and some sleep. But sleep was not easy to come by; either he couldn't get to sleep at all or he would spend a few hours restlessly turning, crying out Sam's name before waking up from his nightmares and starting the cycle all over again. He would never admit it, but Dean was exhausted, and he knew it was time for a pit stop.

It was in this way that Dean found himself sitting in a faded leather booth in the back of a far-too-crowded bar. His head pounding from the joyful screeches of the bar patrons as their football team scored another touchdown, he put his head in his hands and started massaging his temples.

"Of course the only place open is a sports bar in the middle of football season," he groaned. "Friggin' fans are animals."

"No argument here," said a voice beside him. He wearily raised his head to get a look at his fellow cynic. Mischievous hazel eyes stared back at him, highlighted by a crooked smile that felt entirely natural on the angular face surrounding it. Fiery red curls poking out of a messy updo completed the look. Dean squinted in bleary confusion. Who was this chick and why was she talking to him?

"Oh, sorry," she added quickly, "Didn't mean to interrupt the whole 'broody-mysterious' thing. Just here to grab your plate." Oh. Duh. Apron, ponytail, cheesy nametag - she was a waitress. Wow, maybe some sleep would be a good idea. "Unless you want to just stare at the burger for another half-hour?" she said teasingly.

He looked down at the nearly untouched plate in front of him. A few fries had been swallowed down, but he just didn't have an appetite for anything more substantial. Staring at the burger wasn't doing him any favors, anyway. With an impatient sigh, he waved the girl on, not bothering to acknowledge her with anything other than an eye roll.

Raising her eyebrows, she gave a quiet scoff. "Well, thank you, your highness," she mumbled under her breath as she removed the plate and turned to leave. Watching her walk away, Dean inwardly cursed at himself. The first person who's talked to him in over a week and he manages to piss them off without even saying a word. Smooth.

Dean remembered when he could get a woman into bed without a word. Just a smile, a well-placed wink, and boom. He was a master, a modern day Beethoven or Picasso. In fact, most of the girls he used to be with were women he'd run into at a restaurant or bar, like the woman he'd just talked to. But they weren't usually as snarky; they were mostly just insecure and depressed about their lives. After they'd finished "the deed", they'd try to use Dean as some kind of personal therapist, talking about their money problems or their deadbeat boyfriends. Dean, of course, would smile and nod when appropriate until he had a chance to slip out. Like they had any idea what real problems were.

After another half-hour of drowning his sorrows in hunter's helper and trying to tune out tears of the other patrons as their team was crushed (_Karma's a bitch,_ Dean thought), Dean paid the check and decided to head back to the motel he rented earlier.

Deciding against wading through the mob of fans to get to the front door, Dean spied a back exit and slinked out of the building.

"Ah," he said as he gulped in a breath of fresh air. "Air pollution, my ass. This is friggin' beautiful."

Ready to get some well-needed shuteye, he headed toward the parking lot. However, he only made it two steps before he heard a shriek from the back of the bar. Turning around, he snapped back into protective hunter mode and ran around to the back of the building. His eyes widened as he saw the scene in front of him.

Next to a stained and rusting dumpster, a tall figure in black was attacking a woman. She was screaming and crying as tears rolled down her face, but the hooded assailant paid no attention as he shoved her against the back wall and began running his hands around the waistline of her pants. He seemed to be mumbling about something under his breath to the woman, something that was clearly upsetting to the woman, but Dean couldn't quite make it out. It wasn't clear if the man was looking for something or just your regular pervert who got off on trying to rape women, but it didn't really matter to Dean. With a shout, he charged the thug, knocking the both of them onto the ground by the dumpster. The woman gave a small cry before backing away a few feet. Dean quickly jumped to his feet and took a stance as the other man struggled to rise. As the assailant lifted his head up, Dean planted a well-aimed punch to his jaw. An audible cracking resounded through the back alley as the man gave a howl of utter and primal pain. Dean took a quick look behind him to check on the woman still crying a few feet away. Unfortunately, just as he turned his head forward again, the other man had grabbed a broken piece of pipe (_Where the hell did that come from_? Dean wondered) and smashed it with all his might into Dean's right leg.

"Son of a bitch!" Dean screamed as pain shot up through his leg. It felt as though every nerve in his shin had been lit on fire, and hot blood began pouring down his leg. No doubt, it was broken.

He fell to the ground and clutched his wound for a moment, but the rush of adrenaline put him right back into focus. As the man took a step towards him again, Dean whipped out his gun. He had hoped not to have to show it, for fear of freaking out the woman even more, but enough was enough. Through the shadow of his hood, the man's eyes visibly widened, and after a moment of careful deliberation, he turned around and ran as fast as he could. Once he knew the man was far enough away to be safe, Dean grunted and laid back down on the ground, his eyes tightly scrunched closed. The woman stood in shock for a moment before rushing to Dean's side.

Wiping a stray tear from her cheek, she knelt down and helped seat him up. Looking at his leg, her jaw dropped.

"Oh my God…" she murmured. "Are you okay? No, Jesus, of course you're not. You just took a lead pipe to the shin. Shit, shit…" Dean opened his eyes long enough to look over at the woman's face. With a scoff of disbelief, he gently shook his head. It was the same waitress from earlier, the one he'd pissed off.

At the same time, she looked over at him. _You've got to be kidding me. It's the burger guy from earlier_… she thought. Who would have thought he'd be saving her life when less than an hour ago, he wouldn't even give her a hello? _The universe is just weird that way._

She snapped back to reality as he moaned and his eyes began to flutter shut.

"No, stay with me, dammit!" she yelled. This was definitely not good. Frantically looking around, she pulled out her cell phone and dialed 911.

"911 operator, what is your emergency?"

"An attack behind McNally's Bar, one man injured. He's bleeding pretty bad, and his leg might be broken, I'm not sure." She looked Dean over quickly, trying not to miss anything. "I think he just lost consciousness. Please, send an ambulance now!"

"Don't worry, help is on the way."

With that, she put down the phone and began applying pressure to the leg wound, her hands quickly becoming soaked with blood, the blood of a man she had never met. Hell, she didn't even know his name! Still, she knew she couldn't just leave him, especially after what he'd just done for her. Hopefully, he hadn't heard anything the man said to her earlier. No, he couldn't have. Her secrets were still safe.

The two of them remained this way, him unconscious in her arms and her trying to keep him safe, for another seven and a half minutes before help arrived.

With the sirens blaring and the lights nearly giving her a seizure, the ambulance rode up to the front of the building and two paramedics rushed over to her side with a gurney. Taking only a minute to size up his injury and get some initial reading on his pulse and blood pressure, they lifted him up and ran him over to the ambulance. She followed suit, watching them step into the back and each grabbing a door handle as they prepared to take off. She took a breath and started to head back inside for a quick drink when she heard a voice behind her call out.

"Hey, lady, you want to ride with him there?"

She stopped in her tracks. Looking over her shoulder, she tossed a glance back at the doors of the ambulance. She had to admit, her curiosity was peaked. She really wanted to go and find out who that guy was. He'd saved her life, right? The least she could do was make sure he got to the hospital safely. And let's be honest… he was kind of a looker, too. She had to know more about him…

No, no, no. Her logical side screamed with every fiber of her being to leave it alone. She had really done her part, right? He had saved her and she got him some help. He'd be fine, really, he would. No reason for her to go with. She didn't even know who the guy was… what right did she have to stay with him? No, she should really go inside and get ready to go home. Her part in this adventure was over.

But then again…

Less than a minute later, the doors were slammed shut and the ambulance proceeded toward the county hospital, carrying two paramedics, an unconscious Dean Winchester, and a very curious waitress.


End file.
